Mr Franklin had
left some gracious memories with Sybil; the natural legacy of
one so refined, intelligent, and gentle, whose temper seemed
never ruffled, and who evidently so sincerely relished their
society. Mowedale rose before her in all the golden beauty of
its autumnal hour; their wild rambles and hearty greetings and
earnest converse, when her father returned from his daily
duties and his eye kindled with pleasure as the accustomed
knock announced the arrival of his almost daily companion. In
spite of the excitement of the passing moment, its high hopes
and glorious aspirations, and visions perchance of greatness
and of power, the eye of Sybil was dimmed with emotion as she
recalled that innocent and tranquil dream.
Her father had heard from Franklin after his departure more
than once; but his letters, though abounding in frank
expressions of deep interest in the welfare of Gerard and his
daughter, were in some degree constrained: a kind of reserve
seemed to envelope him; they never learnt anything of his life
and duties: he seemed sometimes as it were meditating a
departure from his country. There was undoubtedly about him
something mysterious and unsatisfactory.
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